Anastas
by Dark Lord Duckie
Summary: My name is Frederick, or Fred as everyone calls me... used to call me. There was an explosion... rocks everywhere. It hurts so much... looks like the wall may have had the last laugh after all. What happened to Fred after the Battle of Hogwarts, and how it affected those who loved him most. One-shot. R&R please.


A/N: Disclaimer - The author and the twisted, messy, writhing mass of "What's this do?" that is their brain does not own any of the characters or situations in this story, or even the word "the". As such, they are not the owner of a multi-billion(?) or at the very least multi-million dollar franchise, and if they were, this would be a Deleted Scene or on Pottermore. As it is neither, it is safe to assume that the author coined as Dark Lord Duckie is neither J. K. Rowling or Warner Brothers, such as it were. DLD is also broke, so would appreciate not being sued for playing with characters.

* * *

My name is Frederick.  
Or Fred, as everyone calls me.

I'm not sure what's going on. The last thing I remember is my older brother Percival (Percy) making a joke. Something I wasn't sure he knew how to do.  
He certainly never laughed before and always tried to lay blame from Mum on our jokes whenever we did them.  
Our jokes... ours. George.  
My twin, George... Where is he?  
I'm trying to think, everything is fuzzy.  
My head hurts, it's difficult to move... is that a rock? There's rocks or something hard like it all around me.  
Merlin, my head hurts. Let's try opening an eye.  
They feel open already... but it's all so dark. Why is it dark?  
Did I take a blinding curse?  
Did someone have Peruvian Powder?  
I'll have to make sure that Georgie and I check our notes on who bought that from us. Maybe we can afford to play favourites after all.

"Peruvian Powder? Love potions? Ton-Ton Toffees? Sorry mate, but I'm going to have to ID you. That's right, up with the sleeves. Nice tattoo. STUPEFY." Sounds like a riot, that.

In any case, I can't panic, but I could be blind.  
Let's try and feel around a bit... I can't feel anything.  
Nothing below my neck is working, I can't even swallow.  
My breathing is so shallow... am I dead?  
No. I'm breathing. I can't be dead.

I can hear people moving.  
People crying.  
People are around me, I hear them breathing... sobbing... that sounds like Georgie!  
GEORGIE! I'm thinking loudly, maybe he can hear me.  
They always assumed we had a mental connection.  
We really just thought a like and practiced to keep our sentences smoothly interjecting each other.  
GEORGIE!  
**GEORGE! **  
_**BROTHER!**_ ... nothing.

I'm alone in the darkness.

I think... I think they're crying for me.

I'm not dead! I'M NOT DEAD!

I can't move... what was that muggle word... paralyththi? Parlythesis? Paralyshes?

Blast it all.

Wait! Don't bury me...

I'm not dead. Not yet.

Not yet...

* * *

You know the great thing about shallow breathing?  
It means that you don't run out of air very fast.  
That's not usually a problem for most, but for me? I'm locked in a cedar box.  
A cedar prison, buried six feet beneath the earth.

The wake was interesting. Everyone drinking and regaling stories of my exploits in the past.  
Ones I hadn't remembered myself until someone mentioned them, or one that weren't ... quite my doing.  
It was either Georgie and myself, Georgie, or someone else trying to pin it on us.  
Probably Peeves, the little blighter. But that's beside the point, it was about closure of sorts.  
Me? I've had a lot of time to think, haven't been able to do much else.  
You'd think someone would have thought to cast a diagnosis spell on me like Madam Pomfrey used to do whenever Georgie and I were trying out our prototypes on ourselves or on others.

In fact, we got quite efficient at doing it ourselves. Really did save on the time it took to get from the Tower to the Hospital Wing.

In any case, here I am, lying on this nice soft bed, with throw pillow and tassels.  
Lovely. If I were dead, at least I was dead in style and comfort.  
But I'm not, I'm just paralyzed. Finally figured out what that word was.  
It's like I'm sleeping, almost. Ugh... I think I have an itch.  
Right next to my left hand, on my thigh. This is annoying. It's such a worry to ... it's gone away, that's better.

Wait. My hand moved.

My foot... it's twitching!  
I feel so groggy.  
Eyes... eyes... OPEN! Still dark... but I can blink.  
Shallow breathing, stay breathing...  
They buried me with my wand, right? RIGHT?  
Where is it... where is it... hands stretching, exploring, clamouring... NO.  
Don't panic, don't clamour.  
Ah. Got it.

That is my wand, right?  
I'm not just happy to be moving? Right, yes, good.  
On we go.

Bubblehead charm first off. Swish, gesture that way, left right FLICK.

Excellent. I can breathe again.

Next off... stretch those feet, wonderful feet, sore feet, feet I thought I'd never feel again.  
Knees, 1... 2, good. Hips, yes. Buttocks, still taut.  
Excellent.  
Nothing if not sexy as hell in death, wonderful.  
I'd be really put out if that wasn't the case.

Abdomen, yes, muscles haven't atrophied, lovely, lovely.  
Lungs still pushing out and bringing in air.  
As they were before.  
Heart is pumping, eyes are twitching, mouth...

"My name is Fred... and I? Am NOT dead!"

Excellent, excellent.

Now, what spell to get me out of this mess?

Summoning? No.

Wine conjuration? Later.

Blasting? No... small space, that would hurt.

And I can feel again, don't want to put myself in an early grave ... again.

Jokes later.

Right. Right... messaging spell?  
Yes... Patronus, the Order version?  
Wicked.

Now, what to think of?  
Like Padfoot, my being alive like his being innocent doesn't class as a happy memory.  
The look on George's face when he discovers I'm alive?  
**Priceless**.

That ought to do it.  
Now, drink that image in, let it fill my core.  
I'm coming back Georgie, I'm coming back.  
I'll never leave you again...  
I'll be back.

I'm not dead.  
I'm NOT dead.  
I'M.  
NOT.  
DEAD!

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

* * *

It's been a week.  
A week since my endeavour.  
My journey under the earth.  
My vacation from the surface, from the bright light of life.  
Wrapped in the darkness and all alone.

George hasn't left my side as I recover.

In all the hubbub of the war ending, they're still trying to figure out who is alive and who's passed on.  
The numbers aren't all there, and some who were dead have been found, others who were around were merely polyjuiced, and one Death Muncher named Larry thought he could pass himself off as a tree. The cruciatus seems to have addled his brain a bit, and the bowtruckles nesting in his hair probably didn't help.

But my brother Georgie is beside me, he was leaning against the bed, but that was far too uncomfortable, and he didn't stay there long. He's next to me, sleeping, curled up and snoring. I've missed him so much. I hated to hear his anguished cries as I lay in a close approximation of death. But I'm back, I'm here now, I'll never leave his side again. We're going to naturally go to that point of old grey look-alikes, like the Goblet of Fire made us that one time.

But for now, though I've rested a lot in my time locked inside my mind, I feel emotionally and physically tired, so I'll bunk down with Georgie, like we used to years ago, such a pity we don't have the time or strength to make a blanket fort and plan out pranks for tomorrow.

That will come later, I expect...

* * *

My name is Frederick, and I'm standing outside the Hospital Wing with my brother George.

That is to say, I'm standing.  
He's pacing back and forth. His first child is on the way today, born to his wife, my old childhood sweetheart Angelina.

The shock of my death and return was too much for our relationship, but that's okay. I'll find love again, I expect.

But enough about me, George wishes he was inside, so do I, come to think of it, but he'd already had his fingers in both hands broken and Angelina had managed to keep her hands on her wand, so he was getting cursed pretty badly in there. We got him out of there for his own personal safety.

So now he's pacing back and forth. It's like watching Harry getting upset, or Dumbledore in the Order.  
Back... and forth.  
Back and forth.  
Left to right.

Enough of this, I think, it's not helping his nerves at all.  
I stop him and envelop him in a brotherly rather than manly hug.

"Calm down, Georgie, everything's going to be fine. You'll be a father, and you'll be all serious when you need to be, and teach them pranks behind Angelina's back when she's not looking, and how to feign innocence like a true Weasley. It will all be okay." I whisper to him as he slowly calms down, a tender hand patting his back.

Over his shoulder, I see the nurse walking towards us with a smile on her face. This must be good news.

She takes us both into the ward, rather than try and figure out who is Gred and who is Forge.  
George rushes straight to Angelina's side, looking down at the love of his life, and his firstborn.

"Fred... the second." whispers Angelina to Georgie. "His middle name is Anastas."

"Resurrection... I like it. I love it, I love our son... and I love you." George and Angelina share a tender moment as I turn away to give them privacy. A hand touches my shoulder, and I look over to see my twin brother, enraptured with joy holding my nephew, named after me.

I reach out to touch his little soft cheek, smiling slightly as I whisper to him;

"Hello little Fred... I'm never going to leave you, too."


End file.
